Ten Years
by crocious
Summary: It's been ten years since the tragic events of 9/11 and America still feels it like it was yesterday. Will he ever be the same? Swearing and comfort from from the rest of the world.


**I think this is kind of a self explanatory deal. God bless America, everyone. It's the greatest nation on earth.**

**Thanks to Boss Iggs for double checking for me!**

Alfred Jones stood like a statue in the midst of the milling crowd. The New Yorkers and the Americans on pilgrimage bumped and jostled him without apology, but he didn't mind. Half of them were crying and the other half silently let them.

Alfred watched the people- his people- come and he watched them go. He watched them explain to their children why they were staring at a hole in the ground. He watched beggars hand paper flags to passers-by and he watched the passers-by uncharacteristically thank them. He watched widows and orphans sob. He watched wheel-chairs stop. He watched soldiers walk on hallowed ground as grateful citizens saluted them. He watched a group of off-duty firefighters place flowers on the ground.

He watched his people remember.

Alfred's hand unconsciously crept to a space below his heart, where he knew a large scar burned. Ten years had done little to ease the pain he still felt every time he remembered. He still wanted to cry and wail and lash and hurt. The pain of 3000 deaths saturated the air and he felt he couldn't breathe.

So he stood, motionless, on Ground Zero.

…

Music.

Stars and Stripes Forever.

Stop it.

Alfred glared at his phone and flipped it open.

"What?" he said.

The voice on the other line was taken aback. "A-Alfred? Where are you?"

"Hey, Matt," Alfred said, embarrassed that he had snapped at his little brother. "Sorry. What's up?"

"Where are you?"

"Where do you think?" Alfred said. A Canadian couldn't possibly understand what this place, this _day_ meant.

Mat sighed. "I'm coming over." The line hung went silent and Alfred pocketed his phone.

…

Music.

O Say Can You See.

Stop it.

Alfred flipped open his phone in annoyance. "What, Arthur?"

"Hey." The British voice was uncharacteristically gentle. "How are you, Alfred?"

"Like a Yankee doodle. What do you want?"

"I wanted to see how you're doing. It's the tenth anni-"

"I fucking know that," Alfred spat. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

The line went quiet. "I'm coming over," Arthur whispered.

Alfred slammed his phone shut.

…

Music.

Oh, GOD, someone please stop the music.

Italian voices. German voices. Japanese. French. Chinese. Too many goddamn voices and too much hurt to ask them to take. It was too much. Not now. Not today.

Alfred shut his phone off and watched his flag wave humbly. On any other day, it would flap against the noon sun defiantly, a testament to American confidence and the belief that even the sun must admire American strength and will.

But today is a feeble day. A humble day. Today the flag sits at half-mast with no wind to show off her bright colors. Today she is modest.

Alfred watched her flutter half-heartedly.

"Alfred?"

Alfred closed his eyes at the timid voice. He willed his eyes to stay dry.

"Alfred."

Thirty feet away, Matthew Williams felt himself guided by the current of mourners flooding the memorial. He spotted his brother, the single motionless figure in a crowd made of anguish and tears, and he made his way over.

Alfred opened his eyes and watched his brother politely struggle against the flow of people. Matt finally stood in front of him, panting.

"Alfred?"

Alfred was silent as he looked past his brother to the flag..

Matt's eyes filled. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Alfred felt Matt's arms close around his body and he shut his eyes. The tears escaped and he held his brother.

"There you are," came a British voice. Alfred opened his eyes at the small blond man. Arthur looked at him, gently.

"Hey." Alfred's voice cracked.

"Oh, Alfred." Arthur took both the American and the Canadian and held them to his chest. They opened their arms and embraced their brother.

"I love you both so much," Arthur whispered. "So, so much."

"I love you too," Alfred whispered back. Matt sobbed silently.

"Alfred?" The French accent seemed brazen against the subdued American crowd. Francis caught sight of the hugging group and wordlessly joined them, holding all three tight against his body.

"I am so proud of you, Alfred," Francis said. "You have come so far and achieved so much."

"Thank you, Francis."

"Ve! Doitsu! I found them!"

"Feliciano… try to be quiet."

"I'm sorry!"

A tall German found his way to the hugging family with a nervous Italian in tow.

"Alfred," he nodded. Alfred nodded back gratefully, head still pulled to Francis's chest.

Feliciano burst into tears and wrapped his arms around the family. They opened and let him into the hugging mass.

Soon, Kiku Honda and Wang Yao found them. Yao shuffled his feet awkwardly as Kiku apologized again and again. Feliciano pulled Kiku into an embrace and Yao put an arm around Alfred's shoulders. Alfred struggled a little to hug him back, but Francis and Arthur still held him and Matthew to their chests.

The sun set on New York, casting long shadows on the mass of hugging, weeping men.

…

"Ten years," Arthur said as he handed Alfred another beer.

"And it feels like a lifetime ago," Alfred said. "But I can remember it like yesterday."

"Bullshit," Matthew smiled. "What did you have for breakfast yesterday?"

Alfred stopped and thought. "I… don't remember!" he laughed.

"Tragedies like that," Kiku said quietly. "They… stick."

Alfred blushed. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Kiku looked at him and smiled. "I forgive you."

"And you got bin Laden!" Feliciano chirped. "Doesn't that feel better now?"

Alfred gazed at the ceiling in his hotel room. "Actually," he said, "no."

"No?" Ludwig said, surprised.

"No. At first I was satisfied because I felt like I had avenged my country, you know? But now…" Alfred sighed and closed his eyes. "Now, the victims are still dead. Even more now that we're fighting the terrorists. And no matter what, no matter who dies or who kills or who sacrifices, they'll always, always be dead. And that's one thing I can't fight."

Matt put his hand on Alfred's shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," Alfred said. He laid back on the bed. "I'm glad that bin Laden's gone. He could have done it again and I don't know how well I can protect my people anymore. But his death doesn't make me any less sad or angry or hurt. It just means that there's one less threat in a world filled with threats."

Arthur sighed. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that."

"Why not?"

"Because," Francis said. "You are America. You are supposed to be reckless and foolish and silly."

"Am I?"

"Of course," Yao said. "This sad Alfred is confusing, aru. You are not laughing or running around or eating. It's weird, aru."

"It's like you're not even America anymore," Feliciano agreed.

"What? Of course I'm America!"

"Prove it," Ludwig said.

Arthur shot everyone a look. "That's enough, everyone. This is the anniversary of the eleventh of September. Alfred is perfectly entitled to mourn."

"Within reason," Ludwig said, standing up. "Alfred, it's time."

"What do you mean?" Alfred said.

"It's time to let it go. What happened was a tragedy and it will never be undone. Where can you go from here?"

Alfred sat up. "Go?"

"Yes, go!" Ludwig raised his voice. "Go! _Mein Gott_, where is this so called 'indomitable American spirit?' Where's the fire that sent you to the moon? Where's the determination to always, always, always push?"

"Germany," Canada said quietly. "Not today."

"Then when? If we are not ourselves, who are we? Alfred Jones, who are you?"

"I'm America, asshole!"

"What does America mean?"

Alfred paused and thought.

"Wrong!" Ludwig shouted. "Tell us right now what America means!"

"I don't-"

"Wrong! Tell us!"

"What are-"

"Wrong!"

"Germany-"

"Wrong! What does it mean!"

"It-"

"Say it!"

"Strength!" America shouted, standing up. "America is strength! And it's family! It's brilliance and it's work and it's freedom! It's freedom!"

"And are you free?"

"More than ever! Free to speak and think and do!"

"Are you strong?"

"Hell yeah!"

"Are you America!"

"Yes!" America held his fist in the air and stared at Germany. "I am America! I am the best! I fucking rule!"

Ludwig smiled and sat back down.

America stood, panting. "Fuck terrorism!" he shouted. The room echoed in agreement.

"Fuck being afraid!"

"Yeah!" the countries called out.

"Fuck bondage! I am free and strong and I kick ass!"

"You sure do," Canada said.

"Fuck! I… I want a hot dog."

Arthur gasped in relief. "Really?"

"Yeah! I'm starving!"

The countries let out a collective breath and laughed.

"Are you sure, Alfred?" Francis asked.

"I haven't eaten all day. I feel like I'm gonna pass out. Let's go, I know a great hot dog stand in Manhattan."

…

The next morning, Alfred Jones passed Ground Zero. It was littered in flowers and Kleenex and crosses. People milled about, occasionally stopping respectfully and remembering the victims of 9-11. Alfred stopped in front of the massive flag pole and looked up.

The wind rushed through Old Glory, displaying every inch of her red, white and blue. The sun sat several inches below her, as if it knew that America could kick its ass if the urge struck. The flag waved triumphantly at the world, silently daring anyone to try that shit again.

America grinned. "Fuck yeah."


End file.
